calling Mike 'dave' at a poetry reading

hundreds of internet poets faded into the distance
along the horizon of my cold salty liquid memory
as here exploded in a clear bright blazing dawn
of Monahan, Marchant and Solano.

In that type of surreal sunny morning
I encountered Mike at a convention
to learn from Major Jackson
how to wield words like a gangbanger with a .57
or a perfect jump shot.

Just before the professor shot a single hoop
or free throw with his mad-assed freestyle stylings
I noticed Mike's smile was the same as ever
and it filled me with that cockcrowed hope any father feels
when he sees the new day in a boy
that proves every young man can be great

the irony was not that I called him Dave
so callously

and immediately knew
how not Dave he is

but how he knew my name
and did not despair.